


How to Be a Wizard

by TardisIsTheOnlyWayToTravel



Category: Sherlock (TV), Young Wizards - Diane Duane
Genre: AU, Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Family, John is also a wizard, Kidlock, Magic, Ordeal, Sherlock Is A Wizard, Teen!John, Wizards, but up for adoption for the willing, kid!Sherlock, no knowledge of Young Wizards necessary, the Carl Powers case, totally jossed by series 3 but oh well
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-09-15
Updated: 2014-02-06
Packaged: 2017-12-26 15:40:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,915
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/967682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TardisIsTheOnlyWayToTravel/pseuds/TardisIsTheOnlyWayToTravel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Running his hand along the line of books as he walked, without paying attention to any of them, Sherlock’s hand was stopped by a book sticking further out of the bookcase than any of the others. Sherlock glanced at it, to see that it was a handsomely-bound volume with the words 'So You Want To Be a Wizard' on the spine in fancy gold letters.</i>
</p><p>Sherlock is home from school for the holidays when he finds a book that will change his life forever.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So, I'm no longer in the Sherlock fandom, so I'm never going to finish this. But if anyone else wants to try their hand at writing the rest of it, feel free.

** Chapter One **

Sherlock Holmes was home for the holidays, and he was bored.

Mummy had forbidden him from any more chemistry experiments unless Daddy was home, ever since that experiment that had gone wrong last summer and filled some of the rooms with a gas that made the staff sick, so that was out. Sherlock had read all of his books and didn’t have any new ones yet, and he’d already tried asking Mycroft if he wanted to play chess with him, but Mycroft had been busy looking through the prospectus that each of the universities had sent him, trying to decide which one he wanted before he started his final year at school. Mycroft had been quite short with Sherlock, telling him to stop bothering him, so Sherlock had wandered away with a scowl feeling that Mycroft never had time for him anymore. There was no use talking to Mummy – she was never interested in spending time with Sherlock – and Daddy was away at work, which left Sherlock on his own with nothing to do but try and think of some way to amuse himself.

Giving a put-upon sigh, Sherlock decided to try and find something in the library.

Most of the library was full of boring grown-up books that Daddy and Mycroft liked, about politics and economics and other adult things that Sherlock had no interest in. Sometimes, though, Sherlock found a book that wasn’t _too_ boring, and very occasionally found something enjoyable, like when he’d found Mummy’s old copy of _The Scarlet Pimpernel,_ which was pretty good even if the grown-ups in it were tiresomely in love all the time. Sherlock kept wondering why Sir Percy and his wife didn’t just _talk_ to each other. Really, so much trouble could have been saved if they hadn’t been confusing each other all that time! Sherlock didn’t understand why adults had to be so _complicated._ When he grew up, he was going to be straightforward, and not do anything silly like fall in love or have _feelings_ all over the place instead of using his brain like a sensible person.

Running his hand along the line of books as he walked, without paying attention to any of them, Sherlock’s hand was stopped by a book sticking further out of the bookcase than any of the others. Sherlock glanced at it, to see that it was a handsomely-bound volume with the words _So You Want To Be a Wizard_ on the spine in fancy gold letters.

The title of the book immediately piqued Sherlock’s interest. He rather enjoyed reading stories about magic and fantastical creatures and beings, even if Mycroft and Mummy thought that reading them was a waste of time. Daddy liked them, too. Sometimes he read bits of them to Sherlock before bedtime: books like the Narnia series, and _The Last Unicorn,_ and _A Wrinkle in Time_. Daddy had just finished reading him _The Hobbit_ the night before, and Sherlock thought that it would be quite interesting to be a wizard. With this in mind, Sherlock lifted the book down off the shelf and took it off to his bedroom to read, sitting on his bed with his legs crossed.

It was quite different from what he was expecting. Instead of reading like a story, the book read like an instructional book, similar to the science and geology books that Mummy and Daddy had bought him, explaining what wizardry was and how it worked. Sherlock was fascinated, and quite forgot how bored he had been earlier. 

Wizardry sounded like a lot of work and responsibility, even if it gave you powers, but to Sherlock it sounded like far more interesting work than sitting in a classroom all day, listening to people who were only half a bright as you were and who couldn’t (or perhaps simply wouldn’t) answer all your questions, or who punished you for not reading the assigned homework because you were reading the more advanced material instead. Sherlock thought it would be quite nice to do something important, for a change, even if it meant a lot of work. He read on.

The next part of the book had a section on determining wizardly potential, with a list of personality traits a wizard might have. Sherlock was pleased to discover that just the fact that he could _see_ the ‘how to be a wizard’ manual meant that he had some potential. He went through the list carefully, and was further pleased to find that he had quite a number of possible wizardly traits.

The section of the book that came after that explained that entropy in all its forms (including death) had been introduced to the universe by a being referred to as the Lone Power, who had been cast out by the other Powers for inventing such a nasty thing. Sherlock had only a vague idea of what entropy was; it was something to do with the notion that some processes were irreversible, he knew. In more practical terms Sherlock understood that this meant that the energy output was always less than the energy input, which was why perpetual motion machines were impossible (because eventually they would always run down without more energy being put in). He’d never thought of death as a form of entropy before, but he supposed that it made sense.

The duty of wizardry was to combat entropy in any way they could, according to the book. This was done by conserving energy. This could be done in simply ways, like turning the lights off when they weren’t being used, or it could be done in more complicated ways, through the wizardly Speech that was used to perform spells. 

The part that really excited Sherlock was the idea that through understanding the Speech, he could understand how the universe itself worked! It would be like science, he thought, the really fascinating bits of science, but with _magic_. Completely enthralled now, Sherlock flipped forward to where the wizard’s Oath was. He didn’t know if this was real, or if it were an elaborate hoax; but, he thought, there was no harm in trying. It would be awfully exciting to be a wizard, and only think how jealous Mycroft would be! Grinning to himself, Sherlock read the words of the Oath aloud.

“ _In Life’s name, and for Life’s sake_ ,” said Sherlock, “ _I say that I will use the Art for nothing but the service of that Life. I will guard growth and ease pain. I will fight to preserve what grows and lives well in its own way; and I will change no object or creature unless its growth and life, or that of the system of which it is part, are threatened. To these ends, in the practice of my Art, I will put aside fear for courage, and death for life, when it is right to do so – ‘til Universe’s end_.”

The world seemed to go quieter for a moment, Sherlock’s words almost echoing as everything else went still. Sherlock sat expectantly, waiting for something to happen. Surely, any minute now – 

Someone knocked loudly on the door, and Sherlock jumped, and hastily shoved the book under his blankets, scrambling to stand upright before the door opened.

It turned out to be one of the maids, telling him that dinner was ready. Sherlock scowled at the interruption, but knowing what Mummy was like if he was late he heaved a long-suffering sigh, and went to wash his hands before dinner.


	2. Chapter 2

** Chapter Two **

After dinner Sherlock was supposed to have a bath and go to bed. The very first thing he did after pretending to tuck himself in was grab a torch, and pull out the wizard manual from where he’d stashed it under his blankets earlier. 

Flipping through it, trying to find the page he was up to, Sherlock stopped in surprise. He’d accidentally landed on the page listing wizards from his local county, and there, at the top, was Sherlock’s own name, address, and phone number, as well as a line saying in brackets, _novice, pre-rating._

Sherlock’s mouth fell open in astonishment.

“I’m a _wizard_ ,” he whispered to himself, half in awe, half glee. Flipping through the book some more, Sherlock continued reading as much as he could, soaking up the knowledge like a sponge, until he found himself falling asleep over the book. The hard corner of the book’s cover digging into his cheek was enough to momentarily rouse him, and with reluctance, Sherlock put the book down on his bedside table and turned off the torch, snuggling down into his blankets and drifting off again.

The next morning, as soon as he’d had breakfast, Sherlock grabbed his wizard manual and headed outside. It wasn’t unusual for him to spend all day outside, exploring and cataloguing the surrounding countryside, only coming home at sundown. Sometimes he was so involved in what he was doing he forgot to go home for lunch, so the staff tended to tuck things like chocolate bars and wrapped sandwiches into the pockets of his jacket, just in case. The sandwiches were always marked with the day and date they were made, so that Sherlock knew whether or not they were safe to eat.

Today, Sherlock noted with satisfaction as he felt around in his pockets, there were both sandwiches _and_ chocolate. Excellent. Feeling excited and cheerful, Sherlock found a deserted field with nothing but a few goats in it, and sat down to read the section of his manual entitled _Preliminary Exercises._

_ To change something, you must first describe it,  _ said the book. _To describe something, you must first see it. Hold in one place for as long as it takes to see something._

Well. _That_ was easy, Sherlock thought, a little incredulous. After all, he did that sort of thing all the time. But then, no one outside his family ever seemed to properly observe anything, so perhaps even among new wizards, proper observation was a skill that required teaching.

Knowing how easy observation was, Sherlock stared at the nearest goat, which was eyeing him speculatively. It was a little undersized, for the average goat, with soft white hair and pale beige horns, and a bit of a beard. It’s knees were rather knobbly, it’s ears the shape of an elongated oval, it’s nose twitching as Sherlock continued to stare at it. Its eyes were half-lidded and suspicious.

* _What?_ * the goat asked irritably.

Sherlock screamed.

His scream came out as a high shriek and he scrabbled backwards, eyes wide.

* _You spoke!_ * he exclaimed, but his words didn’t come out in English.

* _Of course I spoke, you daft twit,_ * said the goat, sounding annoyed. It trotted forward, and sniffed thoughtfully at Sherlock’s wizard manual. He snatched it away from the goat, knowing from careful experimentation that goats would eat almost anything, including books. * _What were you staring for?_ *

* _Because you were there_ ,* Sherlock stammered out, still feeling rather discomposed. Talking goats! Was _that_ wizardry? He hadn’t expected it.

* _Bah!_ * said the goat. * _You sound like a cow. They stare at everything, too, the great smelly things_.*

* _You can talk_ ,* said Sherlock recovering a little. The goat sneered at him. The sneer looked strangely natural on the goat’s face.

* _Hah, I should have known you’d be like that. Humans_.* The goat leaned forward with almost predatory interest. * _You smell like sandwiches_.*

Sherlock knew what that meant. He jumped to his feet as the goat lunged for his pocket. He ran, but the goat was right behind him, bleating angrily for him to come back. Sherlock ran faster, and yelped as he was head-butted in the rear by the angry goat, thankfully with the rounded part of it’s horns, not the sharp pointed ends. 

The fence was up ahead, and Sherlock put on a brief burst of speed, just enough to climb up and vault over it. He collapsed in a pile next to the fence, while on the other side the goat glared at him, thwarted.

* _Little two-legged bastard,_ * it bleated petulantly, and wandered away in a bad mood.

Sherlock lay there and breathed for a while. While he’d expected _something_ to happen, a conversation with a goat wasn’t it. He felt almost cheated, except that the incident had been entirely unexpected, and Sherlock liked experiencing new and surprising things, as long as they weren’t bad. While his encounter with the goat wasn’t _good_ , as such, he wouldn’t class it as a bad experience, either.

Feeling confident and excited again, Sherlock went back to his manual. He decided that he wanted to do some proper wizardry, something impressive. After some thought, Sherlock decided that he wanted to go to the moon. 

Looking through the manual, it became clear that going to the moon was an undertaking that would take some time and effort. To start with, he’d need to be able to draw signs and symbols on the ground, which meant he needed to be inside to do it.

Sherlock frowned. While his bedroom seemed the best place to do such a thing, he knew that if anyone came in and caught him drawing on the carpet, he’d be in tremendous trouble. Maybe there was somewhere else he could draw the spell? Then it occurred to him – the old stables had a stone floor, and no one much used it them for anything but storage. Sherlock was fairly certain he had a piece of chalk, somewhere; that should be perfect for drawing on the floor of the stables. 

Smiling delightedly to himself, Sherlock shut his manual and prepared to head home and make his very first attempt at teleportation.


	3. Chapter 3

** Chapter Three **

It took Sherlock ages to draw out the diagrams needed to his moon teleportation spell, but by the time he finished, triumphant and eager and covered in chalk dust, it seemed well worth it, as long as the spell worked. 

Taking a deep breath, Sherlock began to recite the spell. As he did, he could feel the magic activating. The world seemed to grow quieter, the quality of the light changing. As he spoke Sherlock could feel himself being drawn into the spell, the equation of the spell stretching and altering even as the words Sherlock spoke wove it into being. As the spell went on the world seemed to flicker out around him, and Sherlock might have been scared, except that he was too fascinated by the process to feel fear. The piece of the equation which denoted the moon was longer than the part containing Sherlock’s name, but somehow it was easier to say. Finally, after several minutes, Sherlock came to the end of the spell

…and the world slammed away from him, whirling him sideways and upside down as the spell took effect.

Except that words like ‘sideways’ and ‘upside down’ suddenly had no real meaning, because Sherlock was away from the Earth, where there was no up or down or sideways, just endless black space around him. His stomach lurched and roiled. The air around him was cold and pinched at the inside of his ears and at his skin, and utterly, completely silent, a terrible silence such as Sherlock had never known on a planet that was always covered with living, breathing things. There was no sound or light or life here, and Sherlock would have screamed, except that there was no breath or ability to move left in him –

…and the spell suddenly let go, dumping Sherlock in a pile of white, powdery, very fine dust that rose into the air as he fell into it, and very slowly cascaded down again to cover Sherlock from head to toe.

Sherlock didn’t care. His heart was still hammering, in a mix of lingering terror and euphoria. Because he could see the horizon, the great pale landscape stretching away from him. Above the black sky went on forever, dark and pitiless and empty, leaving Sherlock feeling tiny and fragile and exposed. It felt as though if he left go of the dusty white of the moon’s surface, the void around him would suck him away into it.

There was a piece of moon rock not far from Sherlock’s feet, and he shoved it into his pocket, breathing in the cold, stark air and feeling nothing but fear. Going to the moon had seemed like a wonderful idea, but now that he was here….

Flipping open his manual, trembling with the enormity of the experience, Sherlock began to draw the spell to return to Earth, working as quickly as he dared. As he worked, he decided that instead of returning home, he’d go somewhere else. He’d been to London several times, and knew that there were plenty of sources of entertainment there; it seemed like the best destination.

Drawing the spell this time seemed to take forever, as Sherlock was acutely aware of the empty void waiting at his back. He couldn’t wait to get back to Earth.

It was a relief to finally begin reciting the spell and feel it enfolding him, knowing that soon he would be back where he belonged. The sudden feeling of translocation was no less alarming the second time around, but this time he knew what was coming, and was able to hold himself together as he was whipped through space.

He was deposited in a heap outside the British Museum, and groaned as he hit the pavement. He was still covered with white dust: all over his clothes, his skin, even in his hair. A cloud of it surrounded him as he tried to rid himself of it, but no matter how much dust he brushed away there always seemed to be some left.

“Are you alright?” asked an unfamiliar voice, and Sherlock looked up, blinking, into a face full of mild concern. The boy standing in front of Sherlock was several years older than him, with fair hair and a friendly countenance, wearing casual clothes that were far less expensive than anything Sherlock owned.

“ _Dai stiho_ ,” the other boy added, and Sherlock realised that he was dealing with a fellow wizard.

“I’m fine,” Sherlock said shortly, torn between annoyance and curiosity, and tried to scrub moon dust out of his hair. It didn’t work.

“I saw you appear,” the other wizard explained, watching Sherlock’s efforts with mild amusement. “Where were you? It looks like you’ll need a bath to get that stuff off.”

“I was on the moon,” Sherlock explained. The other boy seemed interested.

“Really? The moon? I’ve never been there. I mean, I know it’s possible, but I always seem to have things that need doing here on Earth, and anyway, that sort of jump takes a lot of power. I’m John, by the way.”

Sherlock blinked again, wondering if he had just been paid a subtle compliment, or if the other boy had merely been making a statement of fact.

“Sherlock,” he replied warily. He wasn’t used to people being nice like this. Most people either didn’t pay him any attention, or thought he was a bother.

“Been a wizard long?” John asked kindly. Sherlock shook his head in reply, his eyes narrowed. “I didn’t think so. You’re about the right age to start – most wizards begin a bit before puberty,” John added in explanation.

“Do you know a lot about wizardry?” Sherlock asked. John seemed to be quite at home talking about it, and from his age Sherlock guessed that he had been a wizard for some years.

“Well, I know a fair bit,” John said modestly. He gave Sherlock a thoughtful look. “I’m on errantry right now, actually, if you want to come along. There’s a tree in the park that’s not doing very well, and I think it’s caught some kind of disease. If it has, I want to help.” He hesitated. “So. What do you think?”

It only took Sherlock a moment to decide. His always-lively curiosity was very much roused, and it wasn’t often that he met someone who was nice to him and didn’t condescend to him.

“I’ll come,” Sherlock told John.

“Alright, then,” John smiled. It was an open and pleasant expression.  “Come on, it’s this way.”  
 


	4. Chapter 4

** Chapter Four **

Watching John work with the injured tree was more interesting than Sherlock had expected. John used a stick to gently trace designs onto the tree bark, muttering in the Speech as he worked. Sherlock watched with sharp eyes, and saw the strange mottled pattern on the tree bark slowly disappear, and the brown at the edges of the limp green leaves vanish as well. By the time John was done, he looked exhausted, but the tree itself seemed to be much healthier.

* _Thank you_ ,* said the tree in the wizardly Speech, and Sherlock jumped slightly. Despite his encounter with the goat, it was still strange to hear things with no apparent capacity for language speaking.

* _Not a problem_ ,* John replied, with a weary grin. * _You’re welcome_.*

“God,” he added in English. “I’m famished. I always forget how much that takes out of me.”

Sherlock thought for a moment. He still had the chocolate bar and the sandwiches in his pocket, and if he offered to share his food, he and John could stay here longer, and Sherlock might learn some more from him.

“I have some sandwiches,” Sherlock offered. “You can have one, if you like.”

“Really?” John looked pleased. “Thanks. If you don’t mind.”

Sherlock pulled out his carefully wrapped sandwiches, and mindful of the moon dust still covering him, passed them to John without opening them. John unwrapped them and removed one for himself, passing the others back to Sherlock. John sat down at the base of the tree, uncaring of the grass and dirt he was getting on his clothes, so Sherlock did the same.

“How long have you been a wizard?” Sherlock asked. “Obviously it’s been for several years, but for how many, exactly?”

John seemed a little surprised by Sherlock’s deduction, and Sherlock waited for the usual suspicion or hostility, but none came.

“I’ve been a wizard since I was eleven,” John said, still amiable. Sherlock wondered at it. “Found the book in a box in the attic when I was poking around looking for something to do that wouldn’t get me in trouble or have Harry tagging along after me. Harry’s my sister,” John added, “and honestly, she follows me _everywhere_ , if she can, whinging the entire time. The attic’s dusty, though, and she hates that, so she never bothers me if I’m up there. How about you?”

Sherlock blinked.

“Are you asking about how I became a wizard, or if I have a sister?”

John grinned.

“Well, both, if you want to tell me.”

“I only became a wizard yesterday,” Sherlock admitted. “There was a copy in the family library. As for siblings, I only have Mycroft, who’s seven years older than me.” Sherlock scowled, remembering Mycroft’s brush-off yesterday. “He doesn’t seem to like having me around, either.”

John made a sympathetic face.

“I’m sorry. You seem alright to me. Still, you really only became a wizard yesterday, and you’ve already been to the moon? That’s impressive.”

Sherlock stared. Every indication that he could see signalled that John meant what he said.

“You think so?”

“Sure,” John agreed, and glanced at his watch. He got to his feet. “Listen, I’ve got to get home soon, but if you like we could meet here tomorrow if you have any more questions. That okay with you?”

For a moment Sherlock was speechless.

“That’s fine,” he managed. “Does this mean we’re friends?” he blurted, flushing a second later.

John gave him a startled look, which segued into another expression that Sherlock, with his limited skills, couldn’t read.

“Sure,” John said at last. “If you want to be.” His expression was still peculiar.

Sherlock went stiff.

“If you don’t want to be–”

“Hey, I didn’t say that,” John interrupted. His face was kind again. “Look, it’s just, I don’t have many friends, my family only just moved to London. It’s fine. I’d like to be friends. Really,” he insisted, when Sherlock gave him a skeptical look. “So. Tomorrow?”

“Yes,” Sherlock agreed slowly, and gave his new friend a shy, unaccustomed smile. “Tomorrow.”

“Right. I’ll see you then.” John nodded a brief goodbye, giving Sherlock a reassuring smile, and turned and jogged across the park, leaving Sherlock on his own underneath the tree.

Sherlock thought about everything that had happened today. Visiting the moon hadn’t been the adventure he expected, but meeting John had been pleasant. Sherlock had enjoyed his company a great deal, and learning more about wizardry had of course been interesting. Sherlock thought that it might be nice to have a friend. He’d never really had one before; most people his age thought he was weird, or simply didn’t like him. John didn’t seem to mind, though. Maybe it was because he was older, although why someone older was willing to pay him attention Sherlock didn’t know. Maybe John simply liked him, novel though the notion was.

Since John was now gone, and Sherlock was still covered in moon dust, he decided to teleport home and have a quick bath; he was getting itchy, and the dust kept getting into his eyes and up his nose.

It was unfortunate that Sherlock started heading down the corridor towards his bedroom just at the same moment as Mycroft emerged from his own bedroom.

Mycroft stared at him, looking astonished. Sherlock glared back, feeling embarrassed.

“Sherlock, what in heaven’s name have you being _doing?_ ” Mycroft asked, in lofty bewilderment. “Did you somehow fall into a chalk mine in the few hours since I saw you last?”

Sherlock flushed.

“Go away,” he told Mycroft. “It’s none of your business.”

At that Mycroft’s eyes narrowed, and he took a step forward. 

“Sherlock–”

“Leave me _alone!_ ” Sherlock shouted. “I’ll tell Daddy if he wants to know, but you don’t get to send me away because I’m _bothering_ you and then try and find out everything I do when you’re not there!”

Mycroft stopped where he was, several emotions flickering over his face in quick succession.

“Sherlock…” he tried a second time, his voice more gentle than it had been before.

“Go _away_ ,” Sherlock repeated furiously, and stormed past Mycroft and into his bedroom, slamming the door behind him.

Mycroft didn’t even try to come after him, which somehow, made Sherlock feel even worse. He glared at the door for a moment, before stalking off to have his bath.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The timeline starts to go a bit wibbly here. But this _is_ an AU, so.
> 
> If you're enjoying this fic, please let me know!

** Chapter Five **

That night, as Sherlock was getting ready for bed, there was a knock on the door, and Daddy appeared in the doorway.

“I heard you had a bit of a _contretemps_ with Mycroft today,” he said lightly. Sherlock scowled.

“He doesn’t get to send me away for bothering him and then try to find out what I did without him,” Sherlock said sulkily. “I shan’t tell him.”

Daddy just watched him with an expression that was thoughtful and soft.

“Your brother is almost an adult, Sherlock,” he said, after a moment. “He’s being asked to take on adult responsibilities, and that doesn’t leave him with as much free time as he used to have. This is a very important time for him, in which he needs to make decisions which will affect the rest of his life.”

“But he never has time for me anymore!” Sherlock said angrily. “And whenever he sees me, he’s always telling me off for something or picking on me. He’s always mean, now. I don’t want him to grow up if it means he’s going to be mean. He’s acting just like Mummy.”

Daddy’s expression went funny.

“You think Mummy is mean?” he asked in a careful voice. Sherlock glared defiantly.

“She doesn’t like me,” he said stubbornly. “She never wants to do things with me, and whenever she’s around I’m always in trouble.”

Sherlock crossed his arms, and waited for Daddy to respond, wondering if he was going to be angry.

But Daddy sighed.

“Sherlock, Mummy loves you. She just isn’t very good as showing it.”

“Maybe, but she doesn’t _like_ me,” Sherlock insisted, feeling tears prickle at the inside of his eyelids. He blinked furiously. “Not like Mycroft.”

Daddy sighed again, and rested his hand on Sherlock’s head. Sherlock tilted his head back a little to look at him.

Daddy looked tired, Sherlock thought, and sad.

“Well,” Daddy said, “you know that _I_ like you, very much indeed, don’t you Sherlock?”

Sherlock nodded. Of course he knew that Daddy liked him. It was obvious.

Daddy ruffled his hair.

“Very well. Try and make allowances for your brother. He likes you as well, but things are very stressful and exciting for him right now. I promise that in a year or two, he’ll realise how much he wants you around.”

“But that’s _forever!_ ” Sherlock grumbled, aghast.

Daddy grinned at that.

“I suppose it seems so. But still, try and be nice to your brother, hmm?”

“Oh, fine.” Sherlock gave in. “I’ll _try_.”

“That’s my boy,” Daddy said approvingly. “Good night, Sherlock. Sleep well.”

“Good night, Daddy,” Sherlock responded.

* * *

The next day, Sherlock met John by the same tree that John had helped the day before. It was still looking healthy, and John looked satisfied by the sight.

“So, ah, do you have more questions,” John asked, “or was there something in particular you wanted to do, or…”

“How do you feel about going to the Natural History Museum?” Sherlock asked impulsively. He’d visited the Natural History Museum several times when he was younger, but not any time recently.

“We could do that, I suppose,” John agreed, looking a little taken aback. 

“Good,” said Sherlock. “I haven’t been there in ages. Did you know that their famous _Diplodocus carnegii_ skeleton is only a cast?”

“What, really?” asked John. “You mean it’s not actually real?”

“Exactly. Come along, John.” Sherlock started to walk across the park, and with a bemused shake of his head, John followed after him.

John didn’t seem to know nearly as much as Sherlock did about the material in the exhibits, so Sherlock told him all about them. John’s eyebrows crept up his forehead, but he listened intently as Sherlock talked, and the two of them spent an enjoyable morning wandering around the museum. John seemed appropriately impressed by the dinosaur displays, and didn’t mind examining the geological exhibits.

“You know a lot about this stuff, don’t you?” John asked at one point.

“It’s interesting,” Sherlock responded immediately. “And Mycroft always says that knowledge is power, although Daddy once said that learning is its own reward.”

John snorted.

“Sounds like your family has a conflict of philosophies, there,” he said. Sherlock just shrugged.

At about midday John insisted that he needed to eat some lunch, so the two of them retired to the café, where John bought himself some food.

One of the previous customers had left behind a copy of the daily paper, and the headline of _BOY DIES IN TRAGIC ACCIDENT_ caught Sherlock’s eye. He dragged John over to that particular table, and sat, unfolding the newspaper to read it.

“You like to read the paper?” John asked, looking amused for some reason.

“I like to keep up with current events,” Sherlock replied haughtily, struggling slightly with the large newspaper, “especially the deaths.”

“A little morbid, don’t you think?” said John. Sherlock ignored him, already reading the article.

There was silence as John ate his lunch and Sherlock read the paper.

“According to this, a boy named Carl Powers suffered a fit during a swimming competition and died,” said Sherlock.

“Nasty,” John commented.

“But listen: _The boy’s shoes were not found at the scene, although all of his other belongings were present. Police say that they are investigating._ ”

“Maybe someone decided they liked his shoes and made off with them,” John suggested.

“Think, John,” said Sherlock impatiently. “How likely is it that a thief decided to steal _only_ the shoes of the boy who happened to have died, leaving the rest of his things alone?”

“Alright, I see your point,” John conceded. 

“The police need to be told that it’s not just a tragic accident,” Sherlock declared. John snorted.

“What, and you’re planning to tell them?” he asked incredulously. “Sherlock, they’ll laugh in your face. Pat you on the head and send you home. They won’t _listen_.”

“Why not? You’re listening to me,” Sherlock replied, frowning.

“Yeah, well, I’m not a cop, am I,” said John. “Look, if you’re serious about this, maybe there’s a spell we can use to find out more. But going to the police won’t help, trust me.”

Sherlock thought it through. He’d been brought up to respect the police, but they were, after all, adults, and Sherlock knew well enough how likely an adult was to listen to him. The only adult who ever really did listen to him was Daddy. Perhaps John was right, and he needed to do this himself.

Sherlock unzipped his backpack and pulled out his wizard manual, looking through it for a spell which might be useful. After several minutes flipping through the various pages, Sherlock found a spell which could be used to allow a wizard to see and locate a missing item.

“This spell should work,” said Sherlock, showing John the page. John read it over, and nodded.

“Do you want me to come with you? I might be able to help somehow, especially if anything goes wrong.”

Sherlock felt a little offended at the idea that he might mess up the spell; after all, he’d made it to the moon and back by himself, hadn’t he? But it was true that he hadn’t been a wizard for very long. And John’s help might be useful.

“We’ll need somewhere out of the way,” Sherlock mused. “When I did the spell taking me to the moon, I did it in the old abandoned stables at home.”

“Stables?” John asked curiously. “Your family’s a bit posh, then?”

Sherlock shrugged. He knew from the books he read and the television shows he occasionally watched that most people didn’t live like his family did, but it wasn’t something he particularly thought about, most of the time. 

“Well, I suppose we could teleport out there and try the spell, if you think no one will mind,” John proposed doubtfully. “Won’t your family think it’s a bit weird, you hanging out with someone older than you?”

Sherlock shrugged again.

“I suppose that they’d think it odd that I was ‘hanging out’ with anyone at all, if they noticed,” he replied. “But no one pays much attention to what I do. Mummy’s never cared what I get up to as long as I’m not troublesome, and Mycroft is busy trying to decide what university he wants to go to once he graduates school. Daddy would care, but he’s away most of the time at work.” Sherlock considered John. “Although, I think he’d find you more or less acceptable.”

“Thanks.” John looked like he was trying not to laugh. “Right. Shall we go back to your place, then?”

“I think that would be best,” Sherlock agreed, and got to his feet.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _I'm on a Young Wizards kick again, so here's another chapter of this. If you have anything you'd like to say, comments are appreciated!_

** Chapter Six **

“So,” said John, as they walked, “I’m guessing your surname’s Holmes, since Sherlock Holmes’s the only Sherlock listed in the manual.”

“Correct,” Sherlock confirmed. “What’s yours?”

“Oh, it’s Watson, John Watson,” said John.  “So, what’s it like, having a dad who’s a wizard?”

“What?” Sherlock gave him a look of confusion. “What are you talking about?”

“Well, Sherrinford Holmes – that’s your dad, isn’t it? You share the same address, and his name’s right under yours in the manual.”

“ _What?_ ” Sherlock exclaimed, stopping dead. He immediately pulled out his own manual to check. Sure enough, _HOLMES, Sherrinford_ was listed right beneath Sherlock’s name and details. Sherlock stared at his father’s name.

“Daddy never told me he was a wizard,” he said slowly, feeling obscurely betrayed.

“Sorry.” John looked mildly embarrassed. “You didn’t know?”

Sherlock shook his head.

“I had no idea,” he replied.

It made a certain odd kind of sense, however. It certainly explained why Daddy had always encouraged his interest in fantasy and magic, Sherlock thought wryly.  Perhaps there was some rule against telling non-wizards about wizardry… or perhaps Daddy simply didn’t want Mummy to find out. Sherlock knew that she thought fantasy books were fanciful and useless because they were unrealistic, which meant that she probably had no idea that Daddy was a genuine wizard.

“Are you alright?” John gave Sherlock a worried look. “You’re not upset?”

“I’m fine,” said Sherlock, and realised that he was. “I can ask Daddy about it.” 

Something had caught his eye, however. Where before there had been a line under Sherlock’s name saying novice, pre-rating, there was now what looked like some sort of equation and the phrase _on Ordeal._

“What does _on Ordeal_ mean?” Sherlock asked, frowning.

“What? Let me see that.” John peered over Sherlock’s shoulder. A moment later he slumped. “Great.”

“What does that mean?” Sherlock insisted.

“Being on Ordeal? It’s sort of a test, of your commitment and moral strength as a wizard, I guess. It’s different for everyone, and while it tends to work towards your skills, it tests your weaknesses as well. But basically, whatever your Ordeal is, it’s a problem that you’re uniquely suited to solving, somehow.”

Sherlock thought that over.

“Do you think this Carl Powers case is my Ordeal?” he suggested.

“Could be, but it might not,” John warned. “There’s no way of knowing until you’re in the middle of it, really.”

The two of them reached the park, and set up the spell to teleport back to the abandoned stables at Sherlock’s home. The effect was as uncomfortable as ever, but Sherlock was starting to get used to it.

John blinked a few times when they arrived, but Sherlock sat straight down on the stone floor, on a clear patch that wasn’t already covered with chalk diagrams.

“You’re going to need to wash this, soon,” John commented, sitting beside him and looking around curiously.

“I know,” Sherlock responded. “But I have some room left, yet.”

“Well, yeah, but you want to have some clear space left in case of emergencies, don’t you?” John pointed out. Sherlock had to admit that he hadn’t considered that before.

Sherlock opened his manual to the correct page, while John did the same.

“Have you been doing spells all by yourself?” John inquired, as Sherlock started the preparatory diagrams for the spell he was going to use.

“Of course,” Sherlock told him. “Why?”

“Well, it’s a good idea to get someone to check your work at first, in case of errors,” John explained, looking over Sherlock’s shoulder.

“That’s stupid,” said Sherlock. “Who was I going to ask? Besides, I don’t make errors.”

John grinned.

“If you say so. Anyway, with a two-person spell, like we’re doing, both people always check the other’s work.”

Sherlock scowled uncertainly, wondering if John was lording his knowledge over him like Mycroft sometimes did, but John looked as good-natured as usual. So Sherlock only shrugged impatiently, and continued drawing the various diagrams.

John peered over Sherlock’s shoulder as he worked, forehead furrowed in a faint frown as he watched what Sherlock was doing. He didn’t seem to find fault with any of it, however, so Sherlock didn’t really mind the close scrutiny.

“Finished, then?” John asked, as Sherlock finally completed his work, and stood up. He passed the piece of chalk to John, who took it.

“Obviously,” Sherlock replied, dusting his hands off on his shirt, leaving chalky white handprints on it.

“Everything seems alright to me,” said John. “Right. I’ll do my part.”

This time it was Sherlock’s turn to look over John’s shoulder, as John wrote out his half of the spell. He did it more quickly than Sherlock had, writing out equations and symbols with a swift, precise hand that spoke of great fluency with the written Speech, and when he got to the point where he needed to write out his name, he wrote it as easily and quickly as if he were writing his name in English. Sherlock rather envied his speed and efficiency, but consoled himself with the thought that with time he too would be able to write spells in just the same way.

Actually casting the spell was a little like casting the teleportation spell, but nonetheless, it was different. The world went very still and quiet, just as before, and Sherlock found himself very aware of everything around him. But where the teleportation spell had whipped Sherlock away, this particular spell had a different effect. Suddenly it was as though Sherlock and John were standing somewhere else, looking down as though from a high balcony.

Below them, Sherlock could see a dark-haired boy, perhaps a year or two older than he was, staring down gloatingly at a pair of trainers. His expression was a terrible one: Sherlock wasn’t usually very good at reading other people’s feelings, but radiating from the dark-haired boy he could sense possessiveness and triumph, and a dark, coldly satisfied rage - and beneath all that, a kind of hunger.

_ Christ Almighty _ , Sherlock heard John think, and realised that John could sense the same things Sherlock had. He sounded shaken.

As though he had overheard John, the boy glanced up – and Sherlock found himself staring into large, darkly-glittering eyes filled with a terrible exultation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _So... what do you think should happen next? Also... I believe that non-wizards can also be overshadowed, yes? Anyone know?_


End file.
